Something Tender Like a Nightmare
by lightbreaksdarkness
Summary: Folklore AU Growing up in the Swedish countryside, Christine Daaé has often made the acquaintance of extraordinary creatures like faes. Yet when one day she strays too far from home and is nearly assaulted by a group of men, she doesn't expect to be saved by a näck – a water spirit. Years later when her father has died, their paths cross again, but everything is not as it seems.


A/N: First attempt at writing for this pairing. Support would be lovely. In which the "dark stories of the north" weren't just dark stories. And in which Erik may or may not be a water spirit.

"No please, not my scarf!"

Hurried footsteps tore through the silence of the Swedish countryside, chasing after the faint whisper of laughter that fell through the heavy tree tops, fragile like the first rays of dawn. Christine, red-faced and short of breath, had had many run-ins with the faes in the short span of her sixteen year long life. They had been the first creatures to reveal themselves to her when she was so small she could hardly stand on her own two feet. Like fireflies they had danced around her every night in the garden of her childhood. Faes were naturally playful and enjoyed harmless pranks. It wasn't their fault that she felt such a sense of panic at the loss of her scarf.

"Please give it back. Maybe we can play another game?" she tried again but earned only giggles in return.

Christine pressed her hand to her chest which now felt bare and exposed without the familiar weight of the garment, took a moment to catch her breath and then raced after them again. It wasn't their fault that they couldn't understand the importance of the scarf, that they couldn't understand the importance of a mother or the cutting, gut-churning emptiness of loss. How sometimes in between a few layers of fibres and thread the memory of a reassuring scent could lie dormant like a secret treasure.

A wave of wind rocked through the ancient trees as Christine continued her pursuit and blew her mop of unruly dark curls in every which direction. The soil underneath her feet was warm and soft and utterly spoiled by the ebb and flow of an abundance of sunshine and tempestuous rain, and her shoes left lingering imprints with every step. She had to stop once or twice when her simple woollen dress caught in the thorns of bramble bushes, but sensing her struggles so, too, did the faes. Silently, they floated above her, the flutter of their incandescent wings almost as taunting as the snickering with which they commented each of her impatient tugs and jerks.

"I beg you all. My legs are ever so weary!"

But they did not believe her and flitted away once more when she had freed herself. Off they went into the distance where the line of trees was beginning to clear and a lake glistened serenely in the background. The warm sunlight broke itself on its surface and blinded her, slowing her progress until she carefully picked her way and emerged out into the open.

The faes had made her stray far away from home, and if she lingered much longer she would not make it back in time for dinner. Papa would be terribly worried. She bit her lip and glanced around, nonetheless secretly intrigued by this new slice of countryside she had discovered. Everything seemed perfectly untouched. From the lake to the shore to the wild-growing fields beyond. Only one hut stood – almost forgotten – to one side, smoke drifting lazily up from its chimney. Automatically, Christine rocked forward onto her toes, thirsting to decide whether it was worth exploring.

"Human child," the faes hissed, annoyed at having lost her attention.

The red scarf was invitingly dangled in front of her nose, tickling her, teasing her until she lunged for it and they could hoist it out of her reach. On and on the game went; the scarf fluttering through the air here and there, passed carefully around from fae to fae, always eluding her grasp.

Utterly engulfed albeit frustratedly so, Christine did not hear the men approach until the faes disappeared into nothingness and her scarf blew away into the waiting, gnarly arm of a tree.

"What's all this shouting about?"

"My scarf, Sir. I'm trying to reach it."

Her expression was kind and open, but it did not change the men's demeanour.

"You scared our fish away."

One of them started to circle her, picking once or twice at her dress with fingers that looked rough and blistered.

"I'm terribly sorry, Sir. I did not know. Please forgive me, and I'll be on my way."

"But your scarf?" another one taunted, as he caught her longingly glance towards the tree.

"I…"

She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling cold and exposed.

"I say, don't I know you?"

She could barely bring up her chin to look the man in the eye, but behind the dirt and grime she thought to detect a familiar face.

"Mister Johanson?"

He had worked with Papa once. Her shoulders relaxed.

"Little Miss Daaé? My, haven't you grown."

She didn't get to answer, because her name seemed to have roused the other men into action.

"Demented Daaé? This is the daughter of deranged demented Daaé?"

"Papa is neither stupid nor insane," Christine tried to say bravely, but her voice quivered and broke.

The man to her right shrugged and snorted something slick and yellow onto the earth. "One part of him must work at least."

The others laughed in a manner that was nearly as dirty as the slimy bit of phlegm.

"So you believe that seeing trolls and demons is normal, Miss? Perhaps it wasn't the wind who stole your scarf but the faes?"

Shame coloured her cheeks, and as the men guffawed around her, Christine shrank further into herself.

"As crazy as her father. What a shame…"

The hands were back and picking at her skirt, lifting it up until the cool wind cracked against her flesh.

"Nobody would believe her if she told."

There were fingers on her waist now. Too many eager fingers drifting high and low. And greedy eyes devouring unbidden until she had disappeared so completely that it felt as if only her bones remained. Time no longer existed. Nothing did. Until…

There was music, soft and tender, beckoning. And a voice warm in hue, commanding. Other-wordly. Beautiful. She could no longer feel the men. No hands or eyes or hungry mouths. A breath of life washed through her. Carefully, timidly she dared to open her eyes and saw them staggering drunkenly towards the edge of the lake. No longer in possession of their own free will but drawn like puppets on a string.

Christine gazed down at herself, unharmed for the most part. If she adjusted her dress just so she could pretend that nothing bad had nearly happened.

The first of the men stumbled into the lake, the splash of the water breaking the quiet in two; but the music still persisted. Onward he marched until his torso was nearly submerged, then his shoulders and finally his head. Bubbles appeared on the surface but his body remained lost. The second man soon followed suit.

Gasping, Christine started to run towards the lake. Did they not understand that they were drowning?

"Mister Johanson? Mr Johanson!" she called, but the shoreline was such a long way off still, and he didn't seem to hear her.

Decisively, the heavenly voice coaxed him further and further into the waiting arms of death.

"Mister Johanson!" Christine screamed anew, sprinting as fast as her legs would carry her, until a fire burned between her ribs.

Finally he turned, his face a grimace of terror.

"Tantalising demon! Witch-girl!" he bellowed before something powerful gripped him and pulled him under.

"No, please!" Christine cried, hurling herself into the sand, hands slipping aimlessly through the water.

But the man was gone and the music subsided. Only silence whispered around her. Silence, the breeze and once or twice a sloshing as the lake brushed up against the shore.

"Do not linger, child."

When the voice spoke to her, it reverberated from all the corners and inside her head at once. Crackling and warming like a bonfire.

Christine inched closer to the water's edge where her pale, dishevelled face gazed back up at her. "Did you…did you do this? Did you save me?"

He did not answer and she did not move. Slowly, ripples appeared on the lake's surface and something rose up from its depth. A head, a skull. Two bony shoulders. Jet black hair, slicked back and wet. A pair of amber eyes behind an unmoving, unfeeling white mask.

"Do you not fear me, girl?" A trail of blood oozed from his scalp and dripped down his temple and into the water, suffusing it with clouds of crimson. "Did you not cry and beg I show mercy to this filth?" His eyes blazed angrily.

"But you were hurt." Christine spoke in a whisper, her own eyes trained solely on the wound. Her trembling fingers struggled to collect the hem of her dress. She leaned in closer, close enough for the water to envelope her if she fell. "Let me help you now."

She could not read his expression but saw the fear in his eyes as her hand drew closer. Fear and longing, what a strange combination. For a little while, neither one of them moved, then Christine sought to bridge the last distance. Her fingers nearly brushed against his skin. But suddenly a ruthless breeze tore through the air and icy cold hands wrapped around her wrist. Hurried footsteps reverberated in the distance.

"Go now!"

He released her and soundlessly disappeared underneath the water, leaving in the wake of his blood the red fabric of her beloved scarf. Dazed and confused, she watched it aimlessly drift along.

"Christine? Christine! Oh no, watch out!" The footsteps drew closer and finally splashed into the lake. A boy not much older than herself had waded bravely inside and was now triumphantly clutching the garment. "Cheer up, Christine, I've got it!"

The sun was casting his thick blonde hair in its own golden light, but not even his winning smile could allay her fears. "Oh, Raoul, you mustn't. Please come out of there or the näck will take you."

The young boy laughed and splashed back out onto the shore. "Never, Little Lotte. He would never dare defy you."

The pad of his index finger brushed up against her nose and then he swung the soaking scarf around her shoulders. His sweetness warmed her and gave her the strength to propel her weary bones into action.

"How long have you been following me?"

"Since the blueberry fields," he replied easily, trailing after her towards the woods, entirely undisturbed by the state of his clothes. "You didn't hear me for the longest time. Faes whispering into your ear?"

His cheeks were sun-kissed and freckled. Their familiarity a comfort.

"Yes, we were playing a game."

"And you forgot where you were going." Raoul laughed. "Well, no matter. Papa Daaé will be soothed when he hears about your latest adventure."

She nodded along, suddenly yearning for nothing else but the comfort of her father's little house, the good old oven, the smell of roasted fish.

"Yes, Papa will understand."

But even as she walked away, she couldn't help but steal one last glance at the lake, wondering what secrets its serenely glistening surface still held.


End file.
